Anvil of Stars

“First time out,” Martin said. “Not that it’s any excuse. We’ll have to do better.”

“Obviously,” Hans said.

The children gathered in the schoolroom, subdued, to receive the critique. The War Mother waited while Hans and Martin went first, taking questions from the children, actually more confessions than questions. Some were close to tears. Those who had been deactivated in the early stages of the drill were particularly somber. They had been shut out, and Martin could feel their resentment and brooding anger.

Ariel, who had stayed aboard the Dawn Treader in charge of the team responsible for tracking radiation, was sharply critical. “You were doing nothing but slicking it out,” she said, looking at Martin sidewise, lips downturned. “You could have been detected! Your acceleration flares were too damned bright—what are we doing, letting an exercise give us away?”

“The acceleration flares were too small to be detected by any known or postulated methods from the distance of Wormwood,” the War Mother said. Hakim agreed. Ariel fell silent.

Martin swallowed but said nothing. All voices must be heard. The string of confessions continued. William took his turn after the last craft pilot had spoken, and said, “It was our first time out. We shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. The moms gave us a blank deck and we played it.” He glanced at Martin in the center of the formation, winked one eye as if with a slight tic, folded his arms and legs and stepped to one side.

“These evaluations are useful,” the War Mother said when the silence had stretched for fifteen seconds. “There was no detailed structure to this exercise. The external team showed initiative in providing a structure, but they were ineffective in the opening moments of the engagement. What is the Pan’s evaluation?”

Martin’s anger leaped to several sharp answers but he held them back. “The exercise shows us what we need to learn. We did badly. The simulation was confusing, but reality will be even more confusing.”

“And if we learn how to die before we accomplish anything, what good is that?” Ariel asked. She leaned her head to one side, eyes distant.

“We learn all we can on our own,” Martin said, voice betraying his exhaustion. “The moms have told us that repeatedly. That way, when we pull the trigger, it’s our act as much as possible, not theirs.”

“When do we go out again?” Erin Eire asked, wrinkling her face as if puzzled.

“As soon as possible,” Martin said, suddenly aware he had not conferred with the War Mother. He glanced at the robot.

“In nine hours,” the mom said. “Time for sleep and food and independent study.”

Martin nodded. “Everybody out,” he said. “Private time with the War Mother. Ex-Pans, I’ll need to confer with you after I’m done here. Please wait for me outside.”

“It was our first exercise,” Martin said to the War Mother when all the children had left. “We thought there would be some structure to it… We didn’t expect to be stranded and have something completely random thrown at us. That’s why we did so badly.”

“We are no longer your teachers.”

Martin stared at the divided circle where the War Mother’s face might have been. “Beg pardon?”

“We are no longer your teachers. You are in charge of carrying out the Law. You tell us what to do. Now you train yourselves, and we help, but we do not lead.”

Martin’s astonishment was a painful black pit, and it took him a while to cross over it. “Who decided we’re ready?”

“There have been five years of training. You are ready.”

“I know you want us to carry out the Law of our own free will, but you can’t abandon us now, leave us all on our own…”

“You are not abandoned. We provide the necessary information. We provide the tools. You use them. That is the Law.”

“Slick the Law!” Martin shouted. “You can’t just jerk everything out from under us!”

“You have been informed from the beginning what would be required of you. We have now entered a situation where you must be in control, not us.”

“You warn us by letting us slick up on our first drill?”

“We do not make these choices. They are dictated by circumstance.”

“So we take over from here… all the way?”

“It is the end of our role as teachers.”

“There should have been warning,” Martin said.

The War Mother said nothing.

“This will be a shock… it’s a shock to me.”

Still silence.

Martin fumbled for a means of explaining to the children what he had just heard, a rationale. “You’re trying to knock us into action, break us out of our lethargy? You think that’s psychologically appropriate?”

“It is necessary. We can lead you no further.”

For the first time in his life, Martin became so furious with a mom that he felt he might lose control. He turned and ran from the schoolroom.

* * *

There had been five previous Pans, one for each year of their voyage. They had finished their year-long terms and returned to their groups and families, equal with all the children, but Martin always felt their eyes upon him: Stephanie Wing Feather, the first Pan, and her successors, Harpal Timechaser, Joe Flatworm, Sig Butterfly, Cham Shark.

All five followed Martin from the schoolroom to his quarters in the second homeball, saying little as they laddered and walked. This gave him time to calm down and frantically think. Everything’s skewed now, all our frames bent. How do we lead in this mess? How do I lead?

In Martin’s quarters, the ex-Pans took up positions in the center, in a cubicle of flexible tubes that Martin had made several years before. In zero g, the cage was for floating in while awake or exercising, or for guests to be close without being jammed together. Now that up and down had settled, the cage was just large enough to seat six.

“I’m going to need more help,” Martin said.

“Why?” Stephanie asked. She was a year younger than Martin, a muscular gray-eyed woman of medium height with fine black hair tightcurled in a single ball that when liberated stretched a meter and a half. She was proud of the hair and took scrupulous care of it; Theresa would have said it was her thread.

“The moms expected something from us and I didn’t provide it; they wanted us to design the exercise before we went out, to test our own skills and find our own weaknesses. That’s why the drill was such a mess. They aren’t going to make up any more tests for us.”

“They should have told us earlier,” Harpal said.

Martin shrugged. “I should have guessed. They want us to be more independent. Hell, I’m sorry. I’m not stating this exactly. I still can’t believe it. They’re not going to be teachers any more. We’re on our own. We design strategies based on what they’ve taught us, and we control the Dawn Treader and all the weapons. They say they’ll answer questions, give us information, but…”

“We’ve had trouble with their stinginess already,” Harpal said. He was of medium build, black, with a long, sympathetic face. He wore wraparounds rather than overalls, and within his wraparounds he had hidden pockets that constantly carried surprises. Now he pulled out an orange and peeled it. They hadn’t been fed oranges for fistfuls of tendays. He must have put several away in personal storage.

Stephanie shook her head in wonder. “They could have pushed us into this more gracefully,” she said.

Sig Butterfly was less constrained. “God damn it all to hell,” he said slowly, softly. Sig, dark skinned, with generous features and long hands that wrestled with each other as he spoke, continued, “I thought they understood human psychology. This is devastating. We screwed up thoroughly, and now they tell us we should have…” He shook his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.

“Maybe they do understand our psychology,” Joe Flatworm said. Joe reminded Martin of California surfers, minus the tan. He kept his light brown hair shaggy above a friendly face that simply inspired friendship and confidence. When Stephanie groaned, Joe cocked his head to one side and smiled. “I mean